


I Want You (But Only If You Want Me Too)

by TheSilverQueen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A lot of deductions, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Dom/sub, John's Father Is Abusive, M/M, Mention of Sebastian Moran, Past Abuse, Sherlock Makes Deductions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7926727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverQueen/pseuds/TheSilverQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After landing in a relationship with the sadistic Sebastian Moran, a Dom his father insisted was perfect for climbing the social ladder, John Watson deliberately enlists to get away from any future arranged marriages after the disaster his first one was. Unfortunately, the combined pressure of saving his sister from the same fate and an injury that invalidates him sends him back home – right into the arms of the newest Dom his father has chosen: Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want You (But Only If You Want Me Too)

**Author's Note:**

> First Sherlock fic! Also wrote a really, really long time ago so I'm not really sure where this was going or why it happened or anything, so if there any mistakes, whoops, my bad. 
> 
> Also: the abuse mentioned here is only mentioned very lightly, like someone getting hit and otherwise treated badly, but if that is in any way triggering or you think it might be, please be aware that it is in this fic. You know yourself best, so again, if you think it might trigger, please keep that in mind before proceeding with reading this.
> 
> Also also: totally not betaed or Brit-picked. Sorry in advance for any weird American things that slipped out.

John hates this – this “pre-bonding ceremony”. Supposedly, it takes place in an empty, dark, and calm room where the Submissive sits or kneels and reflects on how he or she will contribute to the bond, with their family arrayed in support. It is meant to help the Sub come to terms with everything, clear their mind, and ready themselves to be the perfect little Sub to the new Dom waiting in the marriage room. That way when they leave the room, they’ll be ready – theoretically – to accept their Dom’s push to begin the bond. 

The reality is much different. And John has gone through it twice, so he knows.

The room is tiny and cramped, and if John’s family had come they would barely have fit. But his mother is too timid to defy his father, and Harriet is off with Claire, celebrating escaping this arranged marriage, so it is just John and his father. It isn’t dark; the lights are turned up all the way, so that as John carefully strips off his clothes his father and the matchmaker can inspect him and make sure there are no deal-breakers, like scars or things hidden from the prospective Dom’s family. And it certainly is not empty, although John keeps his eyes carefully averted to the floor. The walls actually carry an impressive array of toys and clothes and restraints, and the floors are lined with boxes with even more. Sometimes Doms like to require their Subs to come to them bound or leashed or blindfolded or gagged or any manner of humiliating attire – as if being forced to walk out naked for all to see is not humiliating enough.

John doesn’t bother fighting it as he pulls off his pants and folds it neatly with the rest of his clothes. It’s old tradition, just like this arranged marriage, that when a Sub comes into his or her Dom’s family, they do so without a stitch of clothing or property or anything to tie them to their own family, because after the ceremony they will belong to their Dom’s family, and will only be able to own things or dress as their Dom allows. He isn’t pleased by it, but the last time when he hesitated, his father didn’t, and he walked out to meet his Dom with two new bruises on his chest. 

The matchmaker makes a worried frown at the scarring on his shoulder. “Are you sure the family knows about this?” he says, in a high reedy voice, poking at the wound with a vaguely disgusted look on his face. “It shouldn’t look like this. In all my years, I have never seen a family accept a Sub when It looks like It does.”

John grits his teeth and steels himself at the pain, but he’s not quite successful at hiding it, if his father’s heavy hand on the back of his neck is any sign.

“It will be fine,” his father says, tone heavy with warning and a flood of dominance that makes John’s knees quiver despite himself. He’s learned to build up his shields against the push of Doms much stronger than his father, but some part of him deep down inside still either yearns yet for his father’s approval or cannot forget the long, painful whippings and canings his father used to dole out for “infractions”. 

He hates it even more than he can’t decide which it is.

The matchmaker looks skeptically at the cane leaning against the wall. “The family has a right to turn It down,” he reminds them, and then strides out of the room with his nose held high.

John hates him.

His father takes the opportunity to turn all of his attention on John, instead of kissing up to the matchmaker who has orchestrated the entire ridiculous affair. His hand squeezes and squeezes on the back on John’s neck until he starts to feel faint, his mind buckling under the force of his father’s push and the dark memories of how Moran used to do the same, to push and push until John fell to his knees and then kick him until he lay gasping on the floor, battered and bruised in mind and body.

“You. Will. Behave,” his father hisses, the push so strong John can no longer see straight, his chest heaving as his lungs attempt to pull in air to compensate for the disorientation. “You chose this. Don’t embarrass me.”

Yes. As if John choosing to break his old bond because Moran was abusive was _John’s_ fault, simply because Moran was the Dom and therefore automatically faultless.

He pushes back, just a little, against the overwhelming force of his father. If he can’t breathe, he’ll panic, and if he panics he’ll pass out and God knows the match won’t go through then. Whoever the Dom is – his father refused to tell him beforehand so he wouldn’t “have time to think up false charges with that imagination of yours” – John knows they’ll probably barely tolerate receiving an old, battered seconds of a Sub, especially one with screaming, PTSD-driven nightmares that are only slightly better than the dark, silent night terrors he has of nights spent chained and beaten in Moran’s basement. He won’t show them any more weakness or reason to put him under as his father is trying.

He gets a powerful slap for his troubles, but of course it doesn’t matter. Soon the last minute check-ups will occur, and they’ll slather make-up all over him to hide any “imperfections”.

And then he’ll have to walk out and meet his new Dom. He can barely keep back his anxiety.

Then his father comes back with a collar and leash. And worst of all, it’s a _choke collar_ , the kind that means if he resists even the slightest all the Dom has to do is give a light tug and he’ll have to move, or be choked. 

His father sneers at him, even as he fastens the collar so tight every time he swallows he can feel it pressing in, like the whole world has narrowed down to the burning tightness at his throat. “Could be worse, Johnny boy,” he murmurs, and he yanks, hard, so that John has to scrabble forward on hands and knees to breathe again. 

And that’s his last thought, of despair and pain and dimming hope (because his father is right, there are worse things his Dom could have ordered he be bound in during presentation), before the music swells and the door opens and he has to stand up and walk out to meet his new Dom.

* * *

His first emotion is surprise. The room is simple – there’s no showing off, no overabundance of gaudy, atrocious displays, nothing to say anything about the family his new Dom comes from. Moran had ordered the most ostentatious decorations ever, plus a choir and row after row of admiring, faceless chattering Subs to fall at his feet and worship, and to top it off everything had to look gold. This time the room is simple, barely decorated, and, even more surprisingly, relatively empty.

Usually the entire family for the Dom comes out, to celebrate and welcome the newest member. Even though John isn’t exactly the best catch ever, he is still a Sub who will add to the family ranks and wealth, so he’s startled, to say the least, to note only two Doms at the end of the row.

One is only slightly taller than John, with auburn hair and a blank face and a suit so tightly pressed and perfectly fitted it looks like a second skin. Plus, strangely, a plain black umbrella, although judging by the man’s suit it looks more like a possible weapon than a guard against rain. 

The other is younger, though not by much. He is also dressed in an immaculate suit, but while perfectly fitted it looks ill-suited – the tie is out of place, John thinks, and he looks . . . not uneasy, but not quite in his element either. His face is blank too, but not out of stoicism and respect for proceedings; more like he’s exceedingly bored with life because he has sized up everyone in the room and finds them wanting. His sterling silver eyes are sharp and piercing like a laser sight as they flick over John, and he finds himself wanting for clothing, a towel, anything to shield himself from those judging eyes, even though he lost all qualms with nudity through his tours with the military. 

But he can’t. He’s a Sub, and one of these men will be his Dom and master, able to dictate everything and anything about his life. This presentation is merely to make sure his Dom isn’t offended by him, and in the end if his Dom orders John never to wear a scrap of clothing again he’ll have to obey. 

He’ll fight it. But if it isn’t him, it’ll be Harry standing here and he can’t bear the thought of that. 

The matchmaker clears his throat, and that’s when John remembers: _Oh, I should probably kneel now._ He does so with difficulty, the pain in his leg sharp and bitter as the tightening around his throat, since his father gives him no leeway at all, and only manages to keep his head high and spine straight with the training he remembers from his service. 

One of the Doms steps forward, but John keeps his eyes averted; no sense in offending them already. Eye contact between a Dom and a Sub is one of two things: a challenge between enemies, or an acknowledgement between lovers. John doesn’t want to find out so early that this Dom is one of the ones who views it as a challenge and an indication of a surly, flighty, undisciplined Sub. 

“Is It . . . to your liking, Sirs?” his father asks.

The Dom makes a noncommittal noise as he makes another circle. “Stand up, John,” he orders. “I want a better look at you.”

John stands, and tries to prepare himself for another, closer inspection. Moran had done that; reached out and run his dirty, greedy hands all over his body and then kept him on display at his feet for the rest of the party, burning in humiliation. He wonders if this Dom will be Moran all over again – 

“No, I meant, look at me,” the Dom says, and now he sounds a little exasperated. “In the eye.”

Startled, John actually _does_ – and oh, his Dom is the younger man. This close he seems even taller than he did at the end of the room, and his features are sharper than John thought – face angular, cheekbones acute, eyes so sharp it’s like a laser peering at him and _through_ him, past skin and bones and muscle to his very soul. Even more astonishing, there’s something like a spark of . . . not interest, more like curiosity, like John’s a puzzle and this Dom wants to pry him open and then put him back together. 

And when he _does_ reach for John, he doesn’t do anything John expects. He goes for hands and fingers, the scar on his shoulder, the scars on his back. Not like Moran, who’d examined his teeth like he was a horse being sold for glue and horsehide and expressed horror over his calluses. 

Just like that, then, it’s over. His Dom turns around and retreats to the other one’s side and puts his hands in his pockets, like John has ceased to be interesting and he’d like very much to leave now.

The other Dom nods at the matchmaker. “Acceptable. Begin.”

John’s father tugs at the leash and starts to hand it over to the younger Dom, but the man’s gaze flicks along the leash and up the collar, eyes suddenly intense again, and then says abruptly, “Drop it. He comes to me of his own free will, or not at all.”

John forgets protocol and gapes at the man. This isn’t a love match – a rare thing in a world of Doms and Subs – it’s an arranged marriage. Short of one of them dying here or John doing or presenting something horrific, the match will go through. It’s not a choice.

But still. The illusion. It’s nice. A little. 

John’s father does drop the leash, but first he tugs on it again, a reminder, so John swallows tightly and takes one step, then another, and then another, chanting, _For Harry, for Harry, for Harry_. The Dom takes a step to meet him, and then he raises his hand to touch the back of John’s neck – but only a few fingers, not anywhere near the tight grip his father uses or the harsh pinches Moran had delivered. And there, there’s the push, and bloody hell it’s stronger than John has ever felt before, and his knees quiver under the anticipation of that strong of a push – that strong of a _Dom_ – 

But that’s it.

The Dom stares calmly into his eyes, but doesn’t actually do anything. The push remains almost . . . politely distant from John’s own walls. He doesn’t try to force him, or overwhelm him, or subdue him, for all that he probably could with one strong push of that formidable will. 

“A choice,” the Dom says lowly. “Your choice, John. Will you submit to me?” And he strokes his fingers on the back of John’s neck, around his throat, softly, gently, not a command but a question, a plea. 

And for some reason he can’t quite understand or explain, he finds himself sinking to his knees, instinct propelling him to lean his head against the Dom’s legs even as he tilts his head to bare his throat to the Dom’s questing fingers. The Dom’s push grows stronger against him, nudging him ever more firmly under, but it’s not an attack at all; more like water, flowing smoothly around him and soothing jagged ridges, and he can feel the tension in his muscles sliding off, until he’s practically boneless with content against the Dom.

“Yes,” the Dom says softly, and then there’s a click as he unclips the leash and tosses it over his shoulder. 

The word jolts John out of his push-induced stupor, and he blinks up at the Dom, feeling like he’s just woken up. He’s never been put under so easily and quickly, and never been brought back without feeling groggy and sore – but now he feels alert, calmer, settled, and rather like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be but here right now, leaning safely against the Dom – _his_ Dom, in fact, in all but name. 

The Dom doesn’t smile, but the corners of his lips twitch and his fingers are still warm and gentle where they rest against John’s neck, so he figures he’s okay.

The matchmaker clears his throat. “Can we begin?” he says pointedly, and it breaks the staring match enough that it brings John abruptly down to Earth – and he remembers just where he is and what’s going on, and that his father just saw him go down with hardly any of a fight, not to mention all the other people here, and he can’t help the flinch and cringe, much less the sharp but swiftly aborted movement to cover himself.

The Dom watches him, eyes alert, even as he recites the typical vows of “caring, protecting, and shielding” in a monotone voice that reminds John of boring professors. 

John, of course, doesn’t have to say any vows. Now that this Dom has successfully put him under – something usually reserved for _after_ the vows are said – he can already feel the bond beginning to form. Those bonds tie Dom and Sub together, making it practically impossible for the former to hurt the Sub or for the latter to disobey the Dom. John doesn’t have to promise anything to his Dom because after today his Dom will be all he has, and he’d be an idiot to turn that down.

Or so the thinking goes. 

In any case, the vows are said in a few minutes, and then everyone is supposed to leave so the Dom can put the Sub under and the bond can begin. Of course, John and this Dom – whose name he still doesn’t know – have already done it, so John can see the matchmaker lingering, shooting them sideways glances. His father is doing it too, a “thank God it is over” glare that makes shivers crawl up John’s spine.

The stalemate is abruptly broken when his Dom lets out a put-upon sigh and, with a rustle, drops his dark trench coat over John’s shoulders before sweeping away like some avenging angel, leaving stunned and potentially brain-addled people in his wake. Even John stares. But the bond is humming, _Follow, follow, follow_ , and the other Dom is moving to intercept what people remain, so he shrugs, stands up and strides after his Dom who he still doesn’t have a name for.

* * *

His Dom vanishes into a tiny room – more a closet than a room, really – and when John follows in, curious, the Dom is on him in two seconds, slamming him against the now-closed door and staring into his eyes like they hold the secrets of the universe.

John blinks first. “Um. Hello?”

The Dom scoffs and whirls away, pacing up at the other wall. “You have questions. _Real_ questions. Ask.”

Apparently his Dom is brusquer than his gentle push suggests. But John is military, so he can appreciate straightforwardness. “My name is John, what is – ”

“John Watson, invalided army doctor, recently home from Afghanistan or Iraq, injured in action and therefore have a psychosomatic limp, father you dislike, cousin or brother who was supposed to take your place here with me today, former Dom who you heavily dislike and possibly abused you, yes, yes, I know,” his Dom says, in the span of about one breath. “Next question.”

John gapes at him. “How did you – ”

“I didn’t know, I _saw_ ,” his Dom says, an irritated tone in his voice like he’s said it a million times before. “Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military; suntan to face and hands but not above wrists, you’ve been abroad but not sunbathing; scarring on the shoulder but a limp in your leg, a limp which goes away when you confront your father and when you were judging me but came back the second I released you from the push, so psychosomatic, and seeing as you flinch and glare when I say the word, I’d say you know what the diagnosis means, more so than an average soldier, but too stubborn to listen to a therapist, and aren’t doctors the worst patients? – and there we are, army doctor, Afghanistan or Iraq. Next.”

“Um. Afghanistan,” John stammers. “How’d you know – ”

“That you were unwilling to bond?” The Dom hardly waits for John’s nod before he’s off again, speaking so rapidly it’s hard to believe he doesn’t faint for lack of air. “Neither I nor my brother specified a choke collar, or indeed any collar at all, so your father put you in one to contain you, and he also used it as a reminder – that says he’s got something against you. Collar’s been painted over, badly and last minute, can still see the ‘h’ and ‘a’ and ‘r’ and ‘y’, so originally wasn’t intended for you – not a large family or you’d’ve asked someone else to sponsor you here, so brother it is, and you clearly don’t want to bond so you’re doing it to save your brother – not surprising, sentiment gets to even the best of us if we’re not careful. You flinched when your father touched you in the back of the neck, and in fact he left bruises but even though you’re a soldier you didn’t fight back, that says you’re used to it, but since you’ve been in the army that sets the abuse further back, about the typical age for most Subs’ first matches, not to mention you aren’t entirely unused to the collar, so former Dom it is, and abusive and unimaginative too if he felt you were best silenced, since you clearly weren’t expecting me to ask for your agreement to submit to me.”

There’s a vicious edge in his Dom’s voice then; he practically spits out the last words. But he’s right, even now John can remember the panic that had descended the first Moran had forced him under, using brute force and a powerful grip around his neck that almost made him black out as he fought for air. 

His Dom watches him grimly. “Excellent self-control, good health, rather fit for an ex-army medic, good reflexes and eyes, high moral standards, quite loyal too – not quite sure what your Dom found lacking in you,” he explains, as if he’s read John’s mind. 

John swallows. Even now, even though he’s convinced that Moran abused him, it’s hard to get away from that instinctual urge to please, to take the blame on himself. “I didn’t submit.”

“Clearly you _can_ ,” his Dom points out. “But no matter. If you were unwilling, then it was for a reason, and I already saw the signs.”

“Is that why – ”

“Is that why I asked you to submit? No. I don’t force myself on people, so it had to be your choice. No matter your past. Besides,” he says, and suddenly he’s in John’s face again, breath warm as he slides his fingers along the collar, “submission is never about force. The thrill comes from _willingness_ , John, consent. It’d be utterly useless if you bowed to me just because I’m your Dom; I want someone to challenge me, not become a carpet, I have enough of those already.”

And then he’s bouncing back, John’s collar in hands, examining it with an almost bored air, and John gapes at him some more because he never even felt the lock click. “Well, that’s that. I imagine you don’t want this, sentimental reasons aside,” and drops it on the floor.

Someone knocks on the door then, and his Dom opens it to reveal the other Dom, who has a weary look on his face and a bundle of clothes in his arms. “Don’t mess this up, brother, I cannot possible tend to the public affairs if you constantly are upsetting matchmakers.” His voice is utterly bored and weary, but this Dom’s eyes are sharp too, and bloody hell, it must be a genetic trait or something, these laser eyes. 

His Dom shrugs, tossing the clothes at John while pulling out a mobile and beginning to text. “Go away, Mycroft. I need to see Lestrade.”

John pulls on his pants and looks up just in time to see his Dom starting to vanish out the door. “Wait, wait.”

“Yes?”

“Is that it?”

“Is that what?”

“That’s it? Five seconds and now we’re about to share a flat as a bonded pair?”

“Why? You know everything about me already.”

“No, you know everything about me. I don’t know where you live, what you do, or even what your _bloody name_ is.”

His Dom looks up and smiles, a real smile, but sharp like his eyes. “I think we know enough to be getting on with.”

John sighs. Apparently he’s got himself the most arrogant prick of all the Doms in England. What a match, thanks to his father. Although to be fair, Harry would’ve thrown something in a rage at the Dom by now. 

When he opens his eyes again, his Dom is right. There. In his face. No personal space to speak of.

His Dom scoffs. “Oh, what’s the point of personal space, I’ve already seen you naked, and in all likelihood you’ve seen plenty of naked men in your career and will see me so eventually, sooner rather than later, what’s the fuss. Besides.” He leans closer, and without the collar, he can put his mouth right up to John’s ear, just the right height to loom over and cage him against the wall and put all of John’s senses on high alert. “I already know you’re going to be _glorious_ when I get you to kneel for me, you've so much _fire_ , John, and I can’t _wait_ to see that explosion, all that fire under my reins, twisting and uncontrollable and breaking until you can’t remember anything but my name.”

When he draws back, John can’t breathe, and he can’t look away, and his legs are trembling like jelly. Moran was _nothing_ next to this.

His Dom winks. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Now, I’ve got to run, Lestrade’s come across a new serial killer.”

And then he’s gone, and John can only sink to the ground and attempt to find his breath again, shaking from adrenaline or fear or arousal, he’s not sure. He doesn’t care that his Dom’s just abandoned him without asking, now in the early stages when their bond is most fragile; doesn’t care that his Dom just singlehandedly named every single secret John’s ever had; doesn’t even care that he already feels slightly inadequate next to that huge mind and nonstop mouth. It doesn’t matter. He’s so high, like a kite, the perfect last minute thanks to his Dom and it’s _wonderful_.

 _Sherlock_ , he thinks to himself absentmindedly, _His name is Sherlock._

And then he thinks, _Wait, did he say_ serial killer _???_

FINIS

**Author's Note:**

> Again, as I said, first Sherlock fic, and I wrote it so long ago I really have no idea where I was going with it. I intended at some point to make it a full length fic, but . . . yeah, that's probably not happening right now. If the muse gets inspired or enough people give me ideas in the comments, maybe, but currently as it stands, I've read a lot of wonderful Sherlock Dom/Sub fics and since I don't remember where I was going, I don't want to write more chapters and end up just copying what they did without adding the something new and unique that I've now forgotten. But I figured that it was complete enough as it was, so why not put it out there instead of letting it just sit in my drafts. I hope it was enjoyable all the same.
> 
> In short: Please give me comments, they feed my starving muse and tell me if I should write more Sherlock stuff or tell me if I did anything wrong, and if for some reason you're still reading after this rambling, you can also come say hi on [tumblr](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com)!


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